


New Way Home

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Sweet Tooth [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton's A+ self-esteem, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, I'm sure there are less traumatizing ways, Lack of Sleep, M/M, Mission Gone Wrong, Phil Coulson's A+ coping mechanisms, Pre-Canon, Presumed Dead, emotional barriers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-01 14:19:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4023031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a mission goes wrong, Clint Barton doesn't get a choice. He has to go off the grid. Phil Coulson has to deal with the aftermath of that choice -- that is, with Clint being dead. At least, until Clint comes back. None of that is easy.</p><p>The story of that time Clint was presumed dead for six weeks, as mentioned in <em>Paperwork and Meringues</em>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I swear _Paperwork and Meringues_ wasn't meant to turn into a series. Then I realized how many things I'd left open in it. So I wrote this, which doesn't actually tie up any loose ends. Figures. Fair warning: I might end up writing more.
> 
> Also, sorry if I went MIA for a while. My thesis is taking most of my time and energy these days. Even this story has been sitting in my hard drive for a couple of months before I found the time to review and post it.
> 
> As some of you might already have figured out, title is from a Foo Fighters' song.

In retrospect – well, in retrospect, Clint would really like to be able to say in good conscience that the mission had looked suspicious from the start. Truth is, it hadn’t. Which is, of course, unsurprising in turn, given that Coulson usually runs the most thorough background checks before sending his best asset-and-possibly-friend off on a mission under another handler’s responsibility. And, as everyone is bound to know, Coulson’s idea of a thorough background check is _very_ thorough.

There had been nothing off in the brief, no sign that this was going to be any more complicated than it had sounded when Coulson had reviewed the intel with him and Agent Kincaid, his handler for the mission, back at HQ. As far as undercover missions that require Clint’s level of expertise usually go, to be honest, this had looked like the closest to a milk run it could get. Get to Istanbul, take advantage of a sudden opening in a well-known (to SHIELD, at least) arms trafficking organization, track their next big shipment, confirm or deny that it was SI technology. From then on, some improvising would have been needed to stop the cargo from reaching the African coast, but Clint had always been pretty confident in his improvising skills.

At least until everything had blown up in his face barely half an hour after they’d left Haydarpaşa Limanı. _Figuratively_ blown up in his face, one must add, because given the fact that Clint is currently on board of a barge loaded with explosives to the point of sinking, the distinction between figurative and literal is very, very relevant here.

The problem is, there was nothing in the mission plan that might explain how Clint has wound up squeezing between two containers (and no, he really doesn’t want to think about what is _in_ _side_ those containers, thanks) in a desperate effort to hide from his supposed crewmates, who are apparently all too well informed about his identity. There’s no way he could have slipped up and blown his cover so early into the mission – and damn it, Clint is a professional, he _knows_ he’s made no mistake big enough to warrant this. Which just leaves him with one explanation, and it’s the kind of explanation that really doesn’t help his already sour mood.

Because the only remotely plausible reason for all this is that Jeffrey Kincaid, Senior Agent of SHIELD, decorated ex-military, and loyal enough that Coulson trusted him with his best asset’s well-being, double-crossed him. And Clint knows both Coulson and Kincaid well enough to be sure that this isn’t a simple case of an agent running off to a better-paying opponent. This stinks of something rotten, a wound reaching fuck-knows how far into SHIELD itself.

Which would be worrying enough even if Clint wasn’t currently trapped on a barge with eight quite hostile thugs, no bow, no arrows, modified or otherwise, and approximately sixty seconds before the two men advancing on this side of the boat get in sight of his hiding place.

Now, Clint knows it wouldn’t be that difficult to take his opponents down if he tried, especially since they’ve already split up to look for him. He could get rid of them, pilot the barge back into the Port of Haydarpaşa and report straight to HQ. Kincaid is a mole, yes, but that doesn’t mean the rest of SHIELD isn’t safe. His suspicions about a wider plot could, of course, be unfounded. And even if they aren’t, no one says he has to pursue the matter all alone.

That, Clint tells himself, is the simplest course of action. Then, of course, there’s the crazy one. The one which involves a cargo of explosives, an improvised detonator, and an almost mad faith in his own swimming skills. Not to mention the part where he blatantly disregards the rule that labels all agents who go dark for more than four weeks without warning as rogue.

The belt he’s wearing is equipped with a SHIELD tracker. He leaves it on the boat.

The explosion – he has to admit it even as he fights not to be submerged – is extremely satisfying.

***

It takes Clint the better part of four weeks to work his way up from Kincaid and his betrayal to the other end of a network of contacts that spans all over the Balkans and a good part of Eastern Europe. He follows the trail up to Warsaw, careful to cover his tracks even as he makes short work of a few well-chosen members of local crime organizations. He masks his kills as isolated accidents, always changing his methods. He never attacks SHIELD agents directly, merely takes note of the names involved and collects evidence on them. That part has to wait until he gets back in contact with HQ – provided they don’t shoot him on sight, of course.

The evidence he’s collecting slowly grows into a plot that involves a worrying number of Europe-based SHIELD agents, but nothing more. No ties to any known organization besides SHIELD itself, no apparent command structure, nothing. It’s like half of SHIELD’s European division has suddenly decided to go rogue – all by itself. Clint searches for something more definite, he kidnaps and interrogates and tortures, but in the end, he’s about to accept the fact that there’s simply nothing to find.

He’s been in Warsaw for two days when he realizes he’s not the only free agent in town. Luckily for him, the other player in the game is someone he knows well.

Natasha Romanoff is surprisingly easy to approach, and surprisingly accommodating as soon as Clint has finished explaining the situation. He doesn’t trust her, not anymore, but they work great together, and he knows she’s the most powerful ally he could hope for. She says she isn’t under any contract at the moment (not that Clint believes her), but she seems as interested as he is in understanding what’s going on. Together, they pursue the trail of Kincaid’s contacts all the way to Russia, where it vanishes in a puff of smoke. Or, at least, that’s how it feels to Clint, as he’s standing in an alley in St. Petersburg with the last dead body at his feet, enough evidence to prove the betrayal of at least a dozen SHIELD agents, and absolutely no idea what this all means.

“What are you going to do now?” He’s not surprised that Natasha managed to sneak up on him. She’s always been able to do that. “Are you going back to SHIELD?”

Clint thinks of Director Fury, of how he needs to be informed of what’s been going on under his very nose. He thinks about other agents who might be under the same threat he faced in Istanbul. He studiously doesn’t think of Coulson, or Melinda May, or Jasper Sitwell, or all the unlikely friends he’s found himself making in this last couple of years. He doesn’t think of meringues and surprise coffee and of Coulson’s smile when he sent him off to Istanbul.

“Yeah,” he says. “I’m going back to SHIELD.”

Natasha nods. It’s been a long time since they were working together as a pair of hired assassins. She’s had two weeks to tell him he’s changed, and she hasn’t passed on any opportunity to do just that. Clint doesn’t resent her, although he pretended he did every time she said something.

“Why haven’t they come looking for you?”

Clint draws a deep breath before answering. He’s known this since four weeks in, when no one had attempted to make contact. “They think I’m dead.”

“Interesting.” Natasha cocks her head to the side. “And you’re still going back?”

“Yes.”

There’s silence, until Natasha says, “So, I’m off.”

“You could come with me.” It’s impulsive, and it’s stupid, at least at this point, but the last month and a half has been nothing more than nonsense and death and everything Clint had sworn he was never going back to.

“And be killed on sight? No, thank you, little hawk.” It’s an old, silly nickname, and Clint smiles. Despite the cool bite of Natasha’s words, this is the first real opening she’s given him in the time they’ve been together.

“They’ll take you in if I’m with you.” Which would be true if, right now, he wasn’t presumed dead.

“Not this time, Clint.” Natasha’s face is deadly serious.

“Next time, I could be sent to take you out.”

“Then you’ll take that assignment.”

“Yes.” Clint nods, and closes his eyes. “I will.”

“Good. Be well, little hawk.”

When he opens his eyes, she’s already gone.

***

The next day, Clint takes a flight from St. Petersburg Pulkovo back to New York. It’s a commercial flight, but at least he’s flying business, even if his clothes earn him a glare from an overzealous flight attendant – he deserves a little comfort, not to mention the fact that he has two cracked ribs and he really doesn’t want to put up with economy seats on top of everything else. He pushes his head back against the headrest and forces himself to sleep. Everything else can wait. He’s done all he can, even though he still has a nagging feeling that there was more than met the eye to Kincaid’s betrayal, to the rogue agents in the Balkans, to this whole, enormous fuck-up.

It will take him years to go back to that sense of unease he’d felt as he slipped into a half-watchful doze on a plane flying back from Russia, and realize that he’d been right all along. He will regret not trusting his gut at the time, but then again, among all the unlikely options for a hidden nemesis within SHIELD, no one would ever have thought about Hydra.

Anyway, as he’s flying back home (in a sense), Clint chalks his persistent sense of unease up to the reality that he’s been operating alone for six weeks while SHIELD presumed him dead. The paperwork for this will be interesting, he thinks. Just having to make sure that the right files get to the right office will probably make Coulson’s hair stand for a few days, at least.

That is, of course, provided that Coulson ever forgives Clint for letting him believe he was dead in the first place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, this fic is complete, and I'll be posting the next chapters in a few days.
> 
> Little warning for anyone who wants to leave a comment: there's a reason this fic is pre-canon. Said reason is that I still haven't caught up with AoS (I'm up to episode 2x12 -- again, thesis work, not much time), and at the moment I have absolutely no idea how things will turn up in the end. So, please, be careful with spoilers.


	2. Down and out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enter Coulson. Fair warning: Coulson is a mess.

It takes three days for the news of Barton’s death to reach Agent Coulson’s office. It would be an unacceptably long delay in any other situation, but admittedly, there are a few extenuating circumstances. Like the fact that Clint was supposed to maintain radio silence until a few days into the mission, or that the handler in charge is nowhere to be found and didn’t even manage to send an SOS call before disappearing (dying? running away? going dark, maybe a little too well? Just the fact that they have no idea which option is correct is worrying enough by itself). And in the meantime there was that other op in Myanmar, the one where Garrett almost got captured while trying (without much success) to prevent a coup. All things considered, it’s not so surprising that the latest update about Barton ends up on Coulson’s desk a few days later than it should have.

Still, the fact that this sounds an awful lot like it’s going to be the _last_ update about Barton makes it more than serious enough that the information should have gotten through to Coulson quite a bit sooner.

As it is, Phil’s world crumbles with a three-day delay, when Sitwell runs into his office with a face like he’s seen a ghost (or a very angry Director Fury) and gives him what has to be the worst sitrep in his history at SHIELD.

The fact that he’s alone with Jasper makes it just barely acceptable for Phil to excuse himself to the bathroom after hearing the news, because apparently his lunch and most of his breakfast have decided that they want to be at his side in this difficult moment.

Phil is pretty sure that what he’s experiencing counts as shock. From the look on his face, Jasper agrees. He’s also pretty sure that shock isn’t a condition that’s supposed to last longer than a few hours, and most definitely not for three whole weeks.

***

The problem is, Phil Coulson is great at compartmentalizing. He’s a master of the art. He could teach a course in compartmentalizing. It’s just, there’s no compartment tight enough to hold Clint Barton’s death. Not without breaking him. And, well, _not_ breaking is pretty much the whole point of compartmentalizing. So Phil just… flounders.

Then he starts looking for Barton. Because there’s no way Barton can be dead. Disappearing handler and terrifying explosion or not, Barton, being _Barton_ , would have found a way to get himself out before everything went to shit. Therefore, he’s alive. The logic is flawless. With that in mind, Coulson gathers the best agents he has and puts together a search team. They comb through Turkey, digging up each and every SHIELD informant in the country and over the Greek and Bulgarian borders. Then they expand the search. A week into the op, reports are coming in from all over Europe, and half of the Asian sections have been alerted.

Still, they don’t find anything. There’s no trace of Barton. He was on a boat that blew up spectacularly while entering the Sea of Marmara, and that’s where the trail of his movements stops. No body has washed ashore after the explosion – which is unsurprising, given its entity –, and, as far as they know, Barton’s tracker died the minute the boat was gone.

Evidence notwithstanding, Agent Coulson keeps the search up for three weeks. He flies to Istanbul, and back again when it’s clear that no one there has missed anything. The evidence of Barton’s disappearance ( _death_ ) is sound. As he comes back to the Hub, shoulders most definitely not slumping in defeat, Sitwell greets him with a pinched look on his face. Phil knows all too well what that look means. Still, Jasper doesn’t tell him to stop searching. No one does.

By this time, Phil’s almost wishing that someone did.

***

In the end, it’s no less than Fury himself who has to stop him. He comes in person, something that usually has the junior agents’ mouths (and a few of the senior ones’, actually) hanging open in amazement. This time, however, three weeks of out-of-character behavior on Agent Coulson’s part seem to have damped down on everyone’s sense of wonder – or maybe it’s just that Phil has by now lost his ability to care about what happens in his surroundings, unless it’s related to the search for Barton.

As it is, Fury comes up to Phil, puts a heavy hand on his shoulder as he’s poring over what feels like the millionth useless report on Barton’s movements – or rather the impossible lack thereof –, and says, “This ends now.”

Phil stops dead ( _ha fucking ha_ ) in his tracks, mouth going slack, unable and unwilling to respond. It’s Sitwell who takes up the exchange for him. “Excuse me, sir?”

Phil owes it to Jasper to admit that it’s one of the most hostile answers he’s heard anyone give to the Director. Which makes it even more alarming when Fury doesn’t take him up to the challenge.

“I said, this ends now. Y’all have spent three weeks looking for a dead man, wasting all my resources on a single asset. It won’t work. Barton’s dead. We have all the evidence we need. It’s conclusive.” His one-eyed gaze sweeps through the room, singling out the members of the search team. They’re all waiting, their heads half-raised from their work. “I’m sorry.” His tone says, _I am_ _not._ Phil finds himself battling the sudden, irrational urge to laugh and tell him not to bother, nobody expected him to be sorry anyway.

“Now, everybody go home.”

The others nod. A few agents actually start putting their things away. Phil struggles against the sensation that the floor is crumbling beneath his feet.

“Coulson, in my office.”

Without opening his mouth, Phil follows the Director. As they leave the room, he feels Jasper’s eyes like a physical weight on his back.

***

As they walk down the hallway, Phil has to concentrate on keeping his knees from buckling. His whole body feels stiff – he isn’t shaking, but it’s a near thing, and he’s never been so close to losing his face at work since – he’s never been so close to breaking down, full stop.

Except that Phil Coulson does _not_ break down – not even when one of his assets gets killed. Not even when said asset is Barton, who is – _was_ one of the best he’s ever worked with, if not the best, as well as one of the closest things Phil had to a friend. Not to mention, of course, the small but significant fact that Phil had been sure he was in love with him a couple of months into their partnership.

All this doesn’t, apparently, warrant a nervous breakdown in the Coulson system of emotional compensation. Honestly, he doesn’t think he even remembers how he’s supposed to react to such a thing. He feels paralyzed, stuck, like he’s supposed to jump out of his own skin if he wants a chance to deal with what’s happening – what’s happened. With the inescapable fact that Barton is dead.

Maybe if he says it to himself enough times it will start to make sense. Except that it already does, all too much, it has made sense since the moment Sitwell walked into his office and told him about the explosion. What Phil can’t make sense of is his own reaction to all this.

Dealing with the fallout has always been one of his strongest points. It’s almost funny, to think that he’s getting stuck now, when the only kind of damage control he should worry about is the one that has to do with his own grief. Except that there’s no grief to deal with, because Phil Coulson doesn’t allow himself to grieve, not even when he’s just lost the most important person in his life.

Well, at least he’s allowing himself to be a cheesy sap. Just what he needs right now.

The walk to Fury’s office feels interminable.

The Director takes a long look at him, then he slips his best friend face on. Phil doesn’t realize how badly he wants to punch him until his fists clench by their own volition. The tell, of course, doesn’t get past Fury.

“You’re going home now. Take tomorrow off as well.” The lack of a greeting, at least, is customary.

“I’m afraid I have to decline, sir.”

“That’s an order, Agent Coulson.” Phil must have told Fury about a thousand times that his best friend face and stern “I-am-the-Director” voice don’t really mix up as well as he thinks. Apparently, the message still hasn’t got through.

“I’m afraid the answer’s still no.” Anaphora is another one of Phil’s most obvious tells.

“Look, Phil.” Fury stands up at that. This isn’t something that happens frequently, not even when they’re alone. He walks around his desk, coat swishing dramatically around his ankles and all. “I don’t really care for your shitty coping mechanisms right now. What matters to me is that you’ve just lost an asset, and not just any asset, which means that you’re clearly in no state to do anything good right now.” One of the basic tenets of Phil’s sense of self is that he’ll never allow himself to flinch in front of Fury. So he doesn’t. It’s a near thing. “So, you go home now and _stay there_ , or I’ll have you suspended for a month. Your choice.”

Phil nods. There aren’t many other things he could do when he’s faced with that kind of alternative. Fury’s shoulders relax a fraction. As he resumes speaking, his tone does the same.

“You know I need you to run this place, Phil. And I can’t have you doing anything while you’re like this.”

They have a long story of Fury using obvious excuses as a cover for his concern for Coulson. Phil can safely say that it has never grated on his nerves as much as it does now.

“If this is your explanation, Nick, then you can _respectfully_ fuck off.”

“Whatever, Coulson. As long as you do as I say and go home.” Fury waves a hand in his general direction. “You’re dismissed.”

Phil doesn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing his expression change from forcibly indifferent to outright incensed. He turns on his heels and strides out of the Director’s office, the anger in his chest propelling him as far as his own door. He doesn’t need to take anything home with him, so he shrugs his coat on with what he’s pretty sure counts as vicious disdain and leaves. He watches as his own hand punches in his personal override code, the one that will lock his office door to anyone, Fury included. Then he follows himself up to the parking lot, into the car, and along his fifteen-minute drive home.

The person going through that routine doesn’t feel like him. Phil Coulson is still stuck in one of the control rooms at HQ, looking for signs of a missing ( _dead_ ) operative.

Assets die all the time. It’s their line of work, after all. Someone always dies, or gets physically incapacitated, or loses their memory and becomes another person forever. Phil is almost sure that mentally going through all the times this has happened in his service is not what the average person would deem a healthy coping mechanism. Well, so much for proving Fury right.

Phil enters his apartment, locks the door (different override code from his office, of course, but same function), and does the only thing a sane man with his emotional barriers is supposed to do in this kind of situation. He opens the liquor cabinet, takes out a full bottle of (decently expensive) scotch and a tumbler, and locks it back up.

His hands start shaking after the fourth glass. By the eighth, he’s lost track of what’s happening.

***

When he wakes up, it’s barely morning, and his eyes feel like they’ve been sewn shut. He can’t even remember if he cried. If he were honest with himself, he’d admit that it was kind of the point of the whole thing. But he isn’t, and he doesn’t.

Still, he finds himself curled up on the floor with spilled scotch and shards of broken glass all around him, so he gets a pretty clear, if unwanted, picture of what must have happened.

He stands up, goes through some pitiful parody of his morning stretches for the benefit of his sore muscles (everything still feels like it’s locked in place), and has a shower. Cold. He doesn’t think he’s safe enough for comforting warmth at the moment, however impersonal the source.

After he’s toweled himself dry and got dressed in his workout clothes (soft jogging pants and a Rangers t-shirt, because he has the day off, and he’s going to do what he usually does when he has a day off, _whatever the reason_ ), he goes back into the living room and proceeds to mop up the floor. He only cuts his feet on broken glass twice. He only has to stop himself from deducing everything he did the night before three times.

When the living room is in passable conditions again, he opens a window to get some fresh air in, then leaves for his morning jog. He stops at his favorite coffee shop and orders a bitter mocha. He sips it while he walks, enjoying the scenery, emptying his mind.

He’s always been great at fooling himself about his feelings. A couple of years of practice with Barton have made him pretty much infallible.

He goes back home after buying fresh groceries, then he busies himself with cooking. Nothing fancy, but he’s always preferred basic, so this isn’t a change to his routine. Changing his routine now would probably be a bad thing. He isn’t sure.

Barton had looked a bit too surprised when he’d found out that Coulson could cook. It had been almost insulting. Phil had suspected May’s influence to be behind it, and he’d been right. As usual.

He puts the remains of his trout fillet in the refrigerator for the evening. He isn’t hungry anymore.

When evening comes, after a long afternoon spent reading the same page of a Vonnegut novel over and over (he guesses he isn’t finishing _Cat’s Cradle_ today, despite his best laid plans), he gives up and calls for a pizza. The delivery guy makes a funny face at him, so Phil goes and looks at himself in the mirror. If one overlooks the fact that he forgot to shave, and the bags under his eyes from last night’s sort-of-bender, he thinks he looks all right.

He ends up throwing the pizza out after two bites. He thinks about watching TV, then decides against it and goes to bed.

He dreams of Barton. Alive.

***

The next morning, the bags under his eyes haven’t gotten much better. He does, however, remember to shave before going back to work. When he enters his office, nothing has changed.

His first batch of files for the day comes up with a small square of paper taped onto the folder. It reads, _Lunch?_ , in neat block letters.

_Busy – thanks anyway_ , Phil writes back, on a cheesy pink post-it note.

Apparently unfazed by the reply, Melinda May shows up in his office at 12.45. Phil is already working on a new mission plan by then, trying to figure out how to make it work without a sniper. He could, of course, call in someone else, but he’s gotten used to some high standards over the years. That his standards are impossible to meet now that Barton’s – out of the picture, well, that’s a problem he’s going to have to deal with at some point. Just, not now. For now, he’ll stick to changing mission parameters.

Melinda knocks even though the door is open.

“Let me guess. My note got misplaced among all the paperwork.” If his deadpan sounds a little more deadpan than usual, well, he supposes people will just have to get used to it.

“Of course. Things always get misplaced in here. It’s a nightmare.”

She closes the door behind her. Phil doesn’t like that. He’d left that open for a reason, after all. “The answer’s still no, Melinda.”

“Phil.” He looks up, and Melinda has that expression on her face, the one where the corners of her mouth turn downwards and her eyes get very, very serious. It usually scares him, if only a bit. Today, he finds himself struggling with the desire to slap her.

_No._ The very thought’s disrespectful, and besides, he does _not_ want to slap anyone. This isn’t him. Nor is it something he ever wants to become.

Trust Barton to mess with him, even when he’s dead. _Fuck you, Barton, just –_

He takes a deep breath. “I’m fine, Melinda. I promise.”

“That’s not what fine looks like.”

He pulls an expression of wounded pride out of some forgotten part of his repertoire. “Oh, really, May – do I really look _that_ terrible?” He can disguise it as a joke, of course he can. Getting Melinda to believe him – well. That’s a different matter.

“No, Phil. No, you don’t. That’s why I’m concerned.”

There’s silence for a while. Phil considers going back to work on the mission plan. That would, however, be terribly rude, and he’s never outright rude to Melinda if he can help it, so he doesn’t.

There’s no reason he should behave differently than usual. None whatsoever.

“What did you do yesterday?”

“Nothing special. Went for a run. Bought coffee. Made lunch. Had pizza. Before you say anything, the last two things weren’t connected.” He forces a wry smile. It’s almost passable. He thinks.

“You know I’d never dream of saying anything about your cooking skills.” Their usual banter would almost be believable, if their voices weren’t falling completely flat.

“And what did you do the night before yesterday?”

Phil presses his lips together and doesn’t answer. The corners of Melinda’s mouth turn down another notch. Well, at least her concerned expression is more convincing than Fury’s.

_Look, I know you’re here for me if I need anything, can we please skip that part and get straight to the one where you leave me alone, thank you very much –_

“Well, whatever you think you’re doing, I’m still getting lunch. Goodbye, Phil.”

She’s out of the door before he can answer.

***

As the next three weeks go by, Agent Coulson does his job as usual – as opposed to the three weeks before Barton was officially proclaimed dead. There are no rumors about weird behavior on his part, and no one feels the need to speculate about how he’s acting like he’s unaffected by his asset’s death. This might be due to the fact that he isn’t. He’s careful to let just the right amount of concern, sadness and guilt show. He even accepts a cupcake from Jasper (a _cupcake_ – seriously, _what_ ), an awkward half-hug from Hill, and wraps up his next op without making the smallest mistake. He eats regularly, does his morning stretches, fucking _meditates_.

He sets his foot down at therapy. He’s not going to discuss how he’s feeling with a SHIELD shrink, mandatory or not. Fury’s not particularly happy with that answer, but he lets it slide. Phil is, after all, functioning flawlessly.

He dreams of Barton every night. He wakes up with all his muscles locked, not shaking, not crying, not doing anything beside staring at the ceiling. He repeats, _Barton’s dead, dead, dead_ , to himself, and hopes that his subconscious starts processing this little tidbit of information sometime in the near future, preferably _before_ the lack of sleep starts to really affect his work.

***

When Melinda shows up on the twenty-third day of Barton being officially dead with a grim expression on her face and a half-filled form 42-14E (Reinstatement of Deceased Operative), Phil is suddenly very thankful that he’s sitting down.

“Send him to me as soon as he gets on base,” he says, and this time his voice does sound off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm considering splitting the last chapter in two, since it's longer than the first two combined. Still not sure, but if you find yourself with a chapter 3 of 4 in a couple of days, that's the reason.


	3. Coming home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end, I did split the last chapter in two. Which means you get more of Phil being a mess before I start making things right. Aren't we all happy?

A number of interesting things happen on Coulson’s face when Clint enters his office, barely half an hour after getting cleared for access to the Hub. The fact that Coulson is showing any emotion at all is worrying in itself, to be honest, because Clint made sure that his handler got warned in advance about his return and had plenty of time to process the news before they met. You can’t just pull this sort of stunt on Agent Coulson without him getting back at you for it, so Clint surely wasn’t going to surprise his handler by showing up alive on his doorstep, no matter how much he wanted to do just that – and, mind you, he’d thought about that course of action, probably more than should have been reasonable, given the situation. But facing Coulson’s knee-jerk reaction to him coming back from the dead would have been too dangerous, even for Clint’s standards – and that’s from the guy who regularly jumps off buildings, or wraps up missions on his own while letting SHIELD believe he’s dead for six weeks, so they are pretty high standards, all things considered.

As it stands, Coulson’s face flickers with something that looks a lot like relief, then, for a disconcerting moment, hurt ( _and whoa, there, that was definitely not supposed to happen_ ), then anger, before finally settling on his usual mild annoyance. To be honest, this last part isn’t terribly convincing.

“It takes a lot of paperwork to bring an agent back from the dead, Barton. Which is why I’d very much prefer if my agents didn’t die in the first place,” Coulson says, slapping a mostly-filled form on the desk before him. Well, this part, at least, is almost believable.

Of course, this is Clint’s post-factum assessment of what happened in Coulson’s office the day he came back from the dead. Right now, his brain is still busy short-circuiting from the fact that Coulson looked _hurt_ because – _because of him_ , and this, coupled with the overwhelming relief to just be _home_ at last, makes it inevitable that his brain-to-mouth filter fries along with the rest.

And, since apparently his default setting is “monumental dickhead”, what comes out of his mouth is, “Aw, sir. Was that Coulson for _I love you_? Because I’m touched, really –”

Clint has seen a lot of different expressions on his handler’s face during their partnership – some of the most intriguing ones in the last few minutes. None of these could have prepared him for the absolutely incensed look he finds himself at the receiving end of as soon as he closes his mouth.

Or, more accurately, snaps it shut. Hard. He can hear his own teeth rattling together.

“Get out.” Again, Clint has heard his handler’s voice go tight in a number of different situations, many of which involved him getting hurt in some kind of reckless attempt to save the day. Nothing, however, could compare with the tone of Coulson’s reply right now.

“I – Sir, I –”

Coulson’s next intake of breath is loud, air all but rushing in through his nose, his nostrils visibly flaring. _Well, i_ _sn’t that terrifying._

“Out of my office, Barton. _Now._ ”

Clint is sure that the sound he hears as he closes Coulson’s door is _not_ a fist connecting with the wall. Almost sure. It can’t be.

The very visible dent in the plaster beside Coulson’s chair when he finally allows him back in another half hour later (38 minutes, to be exact, which Clint measures by the time it takes him to repeat _I’m an idiot_ in his head an appropriate number of times), along with the barely-scraped knuckles on Coulson’s right hand, puts a stop to his feeble attempts at fooling himself pretty quickly.

***

As far as cover stories go, Phil must admit that Barton’s reasons for dropping off the grid and letting SHIELD believe he was dead for a month and a half are among the most convincing explanations he’s ever heard from an operative. Apparently, Kincaid was a double agent, and Barton managed to grasp what that meant in the big picture while being surrounded by armed men on a barge full of explosives. And, given that no one at HQ had gotten wind of Kincaid’s betrayal ( _they’d assumed him dead – idiots, the_ _whole l_ _ot of them, and Phil Coulson the worst one_ ), Barton’s mistrust of SHIELD’s ability to deal with that mess successfully was, frankly, understandable. While Coulson and a bunch of senior agents were busy being completely oblivious, Barton had managed to take Kincaid and his accomplices out, deal with the fallout all by himself, and gather enough evidence to isolate what looks like a whole conspiracy within SHIELD’s European division, without even making them doubt he wasn’t dead once.

So what Barton has done may be impressive, not to mention perfectly in line with his usual brand of borderline-suicidal heroics. This doesn’t stop Phil from putting him through what he has reasons to believe is the worst debriefing in SHIELD’s history with a vicious satisfaction. He makes sure that Barton will be _very_ busy for a few days, at least, before he heads home.

(To be honest, it won’t take long for Barton’s record for the harshest and longest debriefing procedure ever to be broken, but at the moment Agent Coulson isn’t exactly taking into account the possibility that they end up recruiting the Black Widow, of all people. Given his present mood, this is probably a good thing.)

As soon as he gets home, Phil goes to sit down in one of the armchairs, steeples his fingers together, and forces himself to reconsider what’s happened as calmly as he can. Two hours later, as he gives up and decides to go to bed, he’s chewed through most of his fingernails. And here he’d thought he’d kicked that habit after he graduated from high school.

Once more, trust Barton to bring out the worst in him, even when he’s _not_ dead.

He takes a deep breath, goes through his usual routine of quick shower – light stretches – brushing his teeth, and goes to bed.

***

He wakes up from his by now equally usual dream about Barton with his sheets drenched in sweat and his throat closed. In the dream, Clint was back, alive and talking in his usual flippant manner, grinning at him and – it takes only a few seconds for the coping mechanism Phil has trained himself into during the past weeks to kick in. _No. Stop._ _Barton’s dead._ _Not coming back._ _Dead._

_Is he, now?_

Memories from the day before come back and flood Phil’s brain with relief. Then doubt takes over, and suddenly his lungs feel too tight.

Barton is back. He wasn’t dead. It was a set-up. Phil remembers being angry, remembers Barton being his usual, cocky self, teasing him.

_Just as he always does in Phil’s dreams._

For a few agonizing minutes, Phil can’t tell if what happened the day before was real or if he was just dreaming. Then he gropes blindly for his phone on the nightstand, scrolls through his contact list, and hits “call”.

“Mfgh. Barton,” comes a groggy voice on the other end of the line.

Phil’s head falls back on the pillow. He can’t speak – he barely manages to let out a shaky breath. There’s a rustle that Phil correctly interprets as Clint taking his phone away from his cheek to look at the caller ID.

“Coulson? Shit, sir, is everything okay?”

He can hear genuine concern mixed up with the remains of sleep in Clint’s voice, and suddenly shame takes over on Phil’s side. “Yes, Barton,” he manages to mumble. “It’s all right. Sorry for waking you up. Go back to sleep.”

He doesn’t wait for Barton to answer before he disconnects the call. He slips back under the covers feeling like the weakest person in the world, and doesn’t manage to fall asleep again until morning.

***

The next day is uneventful. Phil bumps into Barton, who’s still up to his ears in debrief-slash-interrogation sessions, a couple of times. He studiously avoids being the one who has to question him.

Every time they see each other in passing, Phil’s first impulse is to apologize for that night’s call. Then he takes a look at Barton’s impassive face, and anger takes over. He clenches his fists as subtly as he can and walks away without a word.

That night is a perfect repeat of the night before. Phil goes to bed, dreams about Barton, wakes up, panics. This time, he fights the urge to get his phone until he realizes that his teeth are chattering. As he unlocks the screen, his hands feel like they belong to someone else.

Barton’s voice sounds more alert this time, like he was somehow expecting the call. It’s enough to make Phil’s stomach lurch with shame. Once more, when Clint asks him if he’s okay, he finds himself unable to say anything.

 _Is that Coulson for_ I love you _?_

His hand clenches reflexively around the phone.

“Hey, sir.” Clint’s voice is quiet on the other end of the line. “I know this is going to sound absurd, and I suppose it won’t make you happy, and I’m annoying you already, am I –” Phil hears a rustle, like Barton’s scrubbing a hand over his face. “– but I just wanted you to know that, uh, you can come here if you want. Now. At my place. To sleep. I mean. Shit, there’s no way I’m doing this right, am I?”

Phil lets out another breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He isn’t sure what he’d have done if Barton had tried to apologize. That’s one thing he’s most definitely not ready to hear.

Still, Barton is right. This isn’t working. It won’t work.

“I appreciate your concern, agent. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Again, he disconnects the call without waiting for an answer.

His teeth are still chattering when he lies back down. He does manage to get a few hours of uninterrupted sleep, mostly out of exhaustion, but in the morning it feels like he didn’t sleep at all. As he stands up, he has to lean against the wall for a few seconds to keep from falling down.

Trust Barton to mess with him, always.

***

In the afternoon, he decides to lock himself in his office for a couple of hours to get some sleep. His head feels like it’s filled with cotton, and he almost dozed off during a meeting with Hill. He tells himself he’s only doing the sensible thing as he lies down on the sofa, trying not to think about the person he put the damn piece of furniture there for in the first place.

He wakes up shaking and has to go through Barton’s back-from-the-dead paperwork twice before he gathers enough strength to unlock the door. As he leaves his office, he texts May. _Any n_ _ews of Barton?_

_He’d better not show his ass in my office for a while._

As he releases the breath he didn’t know he was holding (he’s given up on counting the times this has happened in the last three days), Phil tries to persuade himself that this – _thing_ will pass.

***

It doesn’t.

That night, he’s unable to get any sleep at all, if you don’t count a couple of hours of feverish, exhausted doze. Most of the time, he just lies in bed with his eyes open, trembling and clenching his teeth in self-directed anger. He has no reason to be this upset. Sure, Barton breached his trust. Sure, it will take some time to patch their relationship up. There is still no reason for Phil to be so fucking _unprofessional_ about it.

 _Is that Coulson for_ I love you _?_

Yes, he’s angry at Barton for what he did. This is an understandable reaction. Just as it’s perfectly understandable for him to be happy that Barton’s not dead. There’s nothing new about the fact that he cares about Barton. He’s been aware of this pathetic little crush of his for a while now. He’s dealt with it. It’s never been a problem.

What he was _not_ prepared to deal with is the soul-crushing emptiness he’d felt when he’d believed Barton to be dead, the realization that he’d lost the most important thing in his life. It’s the memory of that, as well as the relief he can’t help but feel at the thought that Barton – _Clint_ – is back, that he’s alive, breach of trust or not. _This_ is a problem. As is the panic that wells up in his chest every time he wakes up and can’t convince himself that it wasn’t all a dream.

He can’t compartmentalize on this.

 _Is that Coulson for_ I love you _?_

If he’s honest, it might very well be.

And it’s most definitely not okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> List of Unsettling Coulson Expressions #3: the nostril-flare. Surprisingly terrifying, when it should just be ridiculous.


	4. Making things right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to upload this chapter a lot earlier than today. Sorry. Things happened -- mostly, my town being caught in The Heat Wave from Hell and me feeling like a wrung-out dishtowel for days because it's _just so freaking hot_.

When Fury stops him after a meeting (because there are still crises to deal with and ops to plan, even though Phil’s world has mostly narrowed to Barton and his own fucked-up self) and summons him to his office, Phil can’t help the sharp feeling of déjà-vu.

Apparently, he’s not alone in that feeling, either. “I’m getting tired of having to drag your ass here and order you to go home, Coulson.”

Phil would say something against that, put up some sort of token resistance, but he’s so exhausted that his hands are trembling, and he’s had a bitter taste in his mouth and the distinct feeling that he might throw up ever since he woke from another too-short nap in his office that afternoon. So he just keeps his mouth shut and nods.

He must look every bit as awful as he feels, because Fury’s concerned expression kicks up a notch. “In case that didn’t register in that dumb android brain of yours, I said _go the fuck home_. And sleep, if you can. Preferably _before_ you drop dead in my office.”

Phil nods again, and drags himself home. He refuses to go straight to bed, so he makes himself tea and toast under the pretense of getting his stomach to settle. Then he goes to sleep. At six o’clock in the afternoon. He tells his wounded pride that he’s exhausted, and ignoring that would be irresponsible and foolish. It’s not his job to be irresponsible and foolish. Barton does that enough for the whole of SHIELD.

The sun hasn’t even set when he wakes up for the first time. He’s sweating and shaking again, but he bites into his pillow and refuses to call Barton. He knows that exhaustion will take over, for a few more hours at least. He’ll get as much sleep as he can, and then he’ll find a way to deal with his sorry self. _Alone_.

He manages exactly 47 minutes of sleep before waking up again. He stays awake for the next hour. His limbs feel alien and heavy, the trembling in his muscles the only thing that’s familiar. He dozes off for another 34 minutes after that. Yes, he’s counting.

Getting out of bed feels like giving up.

***

Clint has just finished getting ready for sleep when the doorbell rings. The sound makes him jump. He’s been twitchy since he came back from his solo stunt in Europe, sure, but this time it’s not just him being paranoid. There’s something wrong in the way whoever is on the other side of the door pressed the button, like they hit it with a little more force than they meant to.

Clint doesn’t know why this sets him on edge, but he grabs one of his throwing-knives before padding quietly to the door.

On the other side of it is Coulson, looking – well, if there’s a more refined expression than _like_ _shit_ , it isn’t really coming to Clint’s mind right now.

He puts the knife away.

Sure, Coulson has his customary suit and tie on, and his jaw is so smooth for such a late hour that it isn’t hard to assume he shaved before coming here. Maybe it’s this detail, or maybe it’s the way he unconsciously rests a hand against the doorjamb to keep his balance, but his usual fastidious appearance has never felt like an armor as much as it does now.

Clint realizes he’s been staring at his handler for a little too long when Coulson clears his throat and pulls out one of his trademark bland smiles. He even manages a mostly convincing version of it, to be fair. Considering the situation, it’s not reassuring. At all.

“I was wondering if your offer from a couple of nights ago still stands.” Coulson’s voice sounds thready and hoarse from – well, whatever it is, Clint knows he doesn’t like it.

“My – oh. Ah, yes, of course. Yessir. Do come in!” That last sentence came out in a cheerful tone that was so forced, Clint has to turn away to hide his embarrassment. “I was just, uh, just getting ready for bed.”

“I can see that.” _Of course. He’s in his pajamas. Talk about obvious. Also, his pajamas are purple, which he's been told is not the subtlest of colors._ Still, Coulson’s deadpan would be a lot more believable if his voice sounded more, you know, human, and less like an old truck struggling over a gravelly road.

“I, uh, I know, sir. It’s no problem, of course. We can sit down for a while, watch something? I have some of the new episodes of _Torchwood_ queued up, if you want. Still have to catch up, after, you know.” _Oh, right, he’s an idiot. He’d almost forgotten that._ “Unless you’ve already watched the new ones, of course. I mean, I would –”

As Clint turns back towards Coulson, he catches a glimpse of the look on his handler’s face before he manages to shut it off completely. _Fuck_ _._ The _Torchwood_ marathons were a thing they’d started just a few months before, as a way of unwinding after a long mission. They’d been through the first season together, and Clint had been debating whether to start on the second one before he got shipped out to Istanbul. It’s just natural that Coulson doesn’t want to get back to their routine, after what Clint did. _Stupid, stupid, stupid._

As soon as he stops mentally kicking himself, however, Clint notices the things Coulson _didn’t_ manage to shut off or hide. Like the dark bags under his eyes or the way his hands are shaking minutely. Which, well, alarming. At a second glance, Coulson looks obviously exhausted, like he didn’t sleep properly for weeks. Which may be exactly what happened, now that Clint considers the possibility. He kicks himself one last time, hard, and sets himself up to make things right, as far as he can.

“Or, you know, we could just sleep. No offense, sir, but you look dead on your feet.” _Brilliant choice of words, Barton!_ _Cheers_ _!_ “The sofa’s very comfortable. I swear. I’m an expert.”

Coulson still has that pinched look on his face. It’s unsettling. “Thank you, Barton. Maybe I should –”

“I’ll get you something clean to change into. You can’t sleep with this on.” He waves a hand towards the suit and moves efficiently to get clothes, in a desperate effort to get Coulson to shut up. That it works is one more sign of just how out of sorts his handler is. “Here. These should fit.” He dumps a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that’s a bit too tight on his shoulders in Coulson’s hands, and tries not to think about the effect that seeing Coulson in his clothes might have on him. It doesn’t matter now. All that matters is that Coulson looks exhausted and unsettled and utterly unlike himself and Clint knows it’s his own fault for being an asshole and disappearing, so he _has_ to make things right as far as he can. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be in my bedroom if you need anything. Good night, sir.” He tries not to make his exit look like he’s fleeing the room. He isn’t terribly successful, but he thinks he manages. Mostly.

***

Phil looks at the lump of clothes in his hands for a full six seconds before he methodically takes the suit off and settles down to sleep. He’s long stopped pretending this is a sensible choice. But he needs sleep, and he needs to do something about all this before he goes mad, so he lies down on the sofa and closes his eyes.

When he startles awake, cold sweat clinging to his skin, he’s in an unfamiliar space, in clothes that are not his, and everything smells wrong. He jumps to his feet before he realizes what’s happening.

He’s in Clint’s flat. He gave up and came knocking. He should feel ashamed, but he doesn’t. He only feels the residual panic from his last dream ( _Barton laughing. Barton teasing him. Barton being dead,_ _dead, dead_ ) and the overwhelming, irrational urge to check that Clint is okay.

He pads out of the living room as quietly as he can. Which is, well, very quietly, given that he’s Agent Coulson and he’s barefoot.

He tells himself that he won’t try to open Clint’s bedroom door if it’s locked.

It isn’t. No, Clint even left it slightly ajar.

_As if he didn’t want to shut him out._

Phil has to close his eyes for a moment before he pushes the door open just enough to look inside.

Clint is sprawled all over his bed, only half of his purple-pajama-clad form hidden under the covers. His head lies slightly askew on the pillow, and he sleeps with his mouth half open. _Relaxed. Trusting. In deep sleep even though he isn’t alone in the house._

Phil doesn’t realize he’s hyperventilating until his vision starts to go fuzzy at the edges.

***

When Clint blinks awake, he doesn’t understand what woke him up for a few moments. Then he hears it again, and knows that it was the sound of someone in his room, breathing heavily.

_Shit. Phil._

Coulson is standing in the doorway, and it takes no more than a look for Clint to see that he’s shaking and gasping for hair, and his eyes are only half focused. He stands up, trying to look and move as non-threateningly as he can, and approaches him.

“Coulson. Sir. Phil.”

“Clint.” Coulson’s voice is strangled. The sound pains Clint physically. He tries not to dwell on the fact that Phil chose to respond to his first name rather than any kind of formal address. It doesn’t really work.

“Yeah. I’m here.” Judging from the way Coulson’s breathing gets harsher, that was _not_ the thing he needed to hear right now. “Hey. Hey, sir. I need you to come back to me. Just, you know, breathe?”

Phil stares at him, eyes wide and glassy and uncomprehending. _Ok. We can do this._ Clint knows how to deal with a panic attack, even though he only has a faint idea of what triggered it – and the little he can imagine is enough to make him feel extremely uncomfortable with himself right now. He takes one of Phil’s hands in his and guides it towards his own chest, so that he can feel him breathing and match his rhythm.

As soon as he gets to touch him, however, Coulson grabs a fistful of his shirt, and doesn’t seem to have any intention to let go. _Come on, Phil, this is not how it’s supposed to work._ “Coulson?”

Phil blinks, once, twice, then stumbles forward and ends up with his face buried in Clint’s chest. As soon as he gets over the surprise enough to realize that Coulson’s breathing is starting to even out, Clint circles his arms around his back. One of his hands travels upwards until it’s cupping the back of Phil’s head. _Whatever works, right?_

They stay like that until Clint’s legs start to hurt from supporting his own weight and most of Coulson’s. Phil is still trembling, but not nearly as much as he was a few minutes ago. Clint supposes it’s a good sign.

“Hey. Phil.” All things considered, neither _sir_ not _Coulson_ sound especially right at the moment. “Can you look at me?”

Phil stays still for a moment, then he shakes his head minutely. Something ugly and unknown takes up residence in Clint’s chest.

Still, his legs hurt and his knees are just seconds away from giving out, which obviously won’t do. So he guides Phil gently towards the bed, taking care not to break the contact between them until they’re sitting down.

It takes a moment for Phil to stop leaning against his chest and push himself upright. When he does, he sits… he sits _primly_. It would be funny, in any other situation. He still keeps his eyes shut. His hands twitch uselessly in his lap a few times, until he moves them to grab Clint’s.

Clint doesn’t usually like it when people touch his hands. They’re the thing he values the most in his body, along with his eyes. Right now, Coulson’s squeezing his hands so hard they hurt, and Clint isn’t scared in the slightest.

Still, he’d be a lot happier if Phil just looked at him. “Phil?” he urges. “I really need you to open your eyes now.”

Phil’s voice is so brittle as he answers that the ugly thing in Clint’s chest rears its head again and bites down viciously on his lungs. “If I do, will you still be there?”

 _Shit. Shit shit shit he’s an idiot he made a mess he hurt Phil and he_ needs _to make this right._ He has to swallow around his own panic before he finds the voice to say, “Of course.”

Phil opens his eyes, looks at him, and his face does something so beautiful, Clint’s heart actually skips a few beats. His eyes are shining and wet ( _oh, fuck_ ), but the crow’s feet at the corners are deeper than ever, and Clint can’t help himself.

“ _Fuck_ , sir,” he whispers. “Look at you. There you go, smiling and looking all happy to see me like, like I was some–”

He meant to say, _something important_ , but he gets cut off as Phil’s lips capture his own in a tentative, clumsy brush.

He doesn’t even get a chance to reciprocate before Phil is pulling away abruptly and standing up, his hands rising as if he wants to tug at his hair and then dropping down in a frustrated gesture. “Fuck. Fuck, Barton, Clint, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. That was unprofessional and I’m tired and I – I’ll just go. Yeah, I –”

“Like hell you will.” Honestly, Clint is surprised he managed to speak so soon. He reaches for Phil’s shirt – _his own shirt_ , he remembers, and the thought definitely sends a shiver down his spine. “Phil. Sit your ass back down and we’re going to have a nice, lengthy conversation, just as you like them.” Phil obeys. He looks stunned. Clint isn’t sure he is much better himself. “But first, let me try to do this right. Can I?”

Phil nods, right into Clint’s hand, which has somehow come to rest on his cheek. This time, they both lean in for the kiss, and neither of them seems particularly eager to break it. As they draw apart, gasping for breath, Phil rests his forehead in the space between Clint’s neck and shoulder.

“I’m here,” Clint whispers.

“I know.”

***

They don’t manage much more than a few lazy kisses before Phil has to lie down and finally get some sleep. Once more, Clint can see the exhaustion etched deep on his face. He stares at him for a while before getting into bed as well. Phil curls up in his arms instinctively. The ugly thing in Clint’s chest is still there, and doesn’t seem to have any intention to move out soon.

When Clint wakes up again, it’s to the feeling of Phil slipping out of bed. He hears him pad down the hall to the bathroom, wash his hands and splash water on his face, then walk back into the room. Rather than coming back under the covers, however, he starts pacing up and down. As Clint opens his eyes, he can see that this time he is pulling at his hair.

“Phil. Phil, hey, stop that.” He props himself up on the mattress.

“I, I didn’t realize you were awake.” It’s Phil’s agent voice – almost normal, if one overlooks the slight stumble over the first word. Clint doesn’t. The ugly thing from the night before seems to have happily resumed its place between his lungs.

He tries all the same. “Come back here?”

Phil shakes his head.

“Look, I know we need to talk, I promised you last night that we’d do that, just –”

“I took advantage.”

It takes a moment for that to make sense. When it does, Clint scrambles to sit up. “You _what?_ No!”

“Yes. I did. I was upset and you only wanted to help. I shouldn’t have forced you.”

It comes out matter-of-factly. Clint can see that Phil is doing his best to look calm. His distress, however, is deep and all too visible, and it makes Clint feel unspeakably angry. At himself, at Phil, whatever.

“Don’t be an idiot. You may still be able to beat me in hand-to-hand, but last night? You were helpless. You couldn’t have forced me into anything even if you wanted to.”

Phil’s face twists up in anguish. “See? That’s what I was talking about.”

Clint is on his feet now, moving to cross the path of Phil’s pacing. His voice sounds dangerous to his own ears. “Wait. You think I did that out of pity?”

“No! No, I – Yes. I suppose that’s what I thought.”

“Well, you know what, Phil, this is a pretty shitty thing to assume, even for you.”

Phil wavers, almost like he wanted to take a step back but caught himself just soon enough. Then he squares his shoulders, and looks at Clint.

“Are you saying that’s not why you did that?”

“Kissing you? No. _No_ , Phil, I did _not_ kiss you out of pity.”

“Why, then?”

“God, Phil, even you can’t be that big of an idiot.”

Phil’s smile is ugly and self-deprecating and _Clint never wants to see it again_. “Guess again.”

For a moment, Clint thinks about turning on his heels and leaving the room. Or the house. Or the country. Then he takes a proper look at Phil, and makes his decision. “Hell no. No, we’re not going there. Listen to me. I did _not_ kiss you out of pity. I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to make things right, either, even though you can’t even start to guess how much I wish I was able to do that.”

He pauses. Phil waits, head bowed, hands clenched into fists at his sides. The only thing missing is a tag hanging from his neck that reads _dejected_. Clint wants to kiss him and punch him and hold him so tight he breaks him.

“I kissed you because I’ve wanted to do that for years. I wanted to do it last night, and I want to do it now.”

Phil looks up.

“Look, I know I screwed up. I disappeared, and that was a – a shitty thing to do. I don’t know how I’d feel if it was you who came back from the dead, but I sure as hell wouldn’t be okay, and it’s pretty obvious that you aren’t either. I don’t know what I can do to fix this, but one thing I know is that, kissing you? That’s not the way to go. Once more: _I did that because I wanted to_. I want a lot of things with you. If you want that as well, you should just come here and stop playing the part of the self-sacrificing asshole. If you don’t –” Ugly Thing rears its head again all of a sudden, and Clint hears himself falter. “If you don’t, then you can just go away. I suppose I’ll see you around, sometime, at HQ.”

“Clint.” Phil’s voice sounds brittle again. Clint steels himself for the blow that he’s now sure is coming. “I want you. I’ve wanted you for – a long time as well. I guess this makes me kind of an idiot, doesn’t it?”

There’s a smile in Phil’s voice. Ugly Thing shrieks as it melts away from Clint’s chest all of a sudden.

“A little bit. Maybe. I don’t mind.”

“I think I do. Maybe. A little bit. Come here?”

Clint does. The kiss is long and full of unspeakable things and it leaves them both dizzy.

When they’re finished kissing, Clint leans his forehead against Phil’s. It’s surprisingly comfortable, the fact that they’re almost the same height. “Hate to spoil the moment, but I think we’re supposed to get back to HQ sometime soon.”

The corners of Phil’s mouth quirk up. “I called in sick.”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I can do it now.”

“Ha. Knew it. You can call in sick for yourself, maybe. I have a metric fuck-ton of debriefs and paperwork to go through, remember?”

Phil pulls a face. “I did this to myself, did I?”

“You know what?” Clint grins as he leans in for another kiss. “I don’t think I care.”

As it turns out, Fury is all too willing to let them stay at home for the day. If he sounds a little too smug about it, well, Phil supposes they deserved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can see, I'm not marking this series as complete. I have plans for a couple more fics, one of which involves May and pastries again, but no timeline yet. Next item in my agenda (and I'm really looking forward to it) is the companion piece for _Something Blue_. ~~Also, I really have to get around to setting up a Tumblr account.~~ ETA: I did it! [Come say hi.](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/)


End file.
